Caroline's Miscellany

Celestial noses

2013-05-19T11:59:00.000+01:00

For the annual Museums at Night event, the Wellcome Collection chose a theme it nose is not to be sniffed at!

Activities ranged from nose-flute making to something for those of us with sensitive noses: a garden demonstrating which plants do and don't cause hayfever.

Bottles of smells confronted visitors with aromas from cinnamon to chloroform.

A talk on the nose's cultural history introduced me to the pseudoscience of nasology. A little further investigation shows that this theory, first published in 1848, shines an interesting light on Victorian science and popular culture. The original book, Nasology, was reprinted in seven further editions as Notes on Noses. In fact, its inventor George Jabet had intended it as a joke, a satire on phrenology and ethnology:

We believe that, besides being an ornament to the face, a breathing apparatus, or a convenient handle by which to grasp an impudent fellow, it is an important index to its owner's character ... Nasology is strictly in harmony with the deductions of the ablest physiognomists and ethnologists.

Such study of moral character through physical characteristics - whether the contours of the skull or the line of the nose - was taken seriously as a scientific enterprise in the nineteenth century. Thus, whatever the author's intentions, the classification he offered fit readily into cultural understandings of the body. The media and even some phrenologists eagerly took it up, not always grasping its intent (and indeed, the Daily Mail was happy to print a very similar article in 2011!).

This categorisation of physical characteristics is, of course, not always benign. Nasology offered six types of noses, including the Roman, Greek, Cogitative, Snub and Jewish, as well as discourses on 'national noses' and women's noses. Even if much of the anti-Semitic, racist and sexist exposition was intended to satirise the ethnology and attitudes of the time (and that's often unclear), it makes for unpleasant reading today.

On a lighter note, the final nose type - my own - is the Celestial. That may sound charming, but unfortunately the author considered such upturned noses far from heavenly. Their possessors were deemed to have 'natural weakness, mean, disagreeable disposition, with petty insolence'. Thank goodness it's all nonsense ...

New-old sauce

2013-05-16T20:47:00.000+01:00

When I shared some Scarborough ghost signs, I couldn't resist including this 1960s poster for HP sauce.

However, this is actually a poster with a story! Cathy, who's Nekoglyph on flickr, kindly left a comment to explain. Her photograph of the poster got a response from the owner of the shop. It turns out that the advert hasn't been hanging around for decades at all, but was pasted up for filming of The Royal - a period hospital drama filmed around Whitby and Scarborough.

While the Scarborough poster may be a cheeky impostor, the History of Advertising Trust has a lovely image of the original. (And when you visit their site, don't forget to have a look at the Ghostsigns archive!)

Horse & Motor Contractors

2013-05-12T19:07:00.001+01:00

Barbon Close, a narrow alley off Great Ormond Street, shelters a rather nice old sign. A notice in the London Gazette shows that G Bailey & Sons were wound up in 1951, so the painted wooden board has been around for a while.

The description of the company as "horse and motor contractors" reminds us of the period when horses were still in regular work even as motor vehicles made their presence increasingly felt.In fact, that period was more extended than we might at first think. Although most of London's buses were motor vehicles by the time of the First World War, many other businesses continued to use horses beyond the end of the Second World War. In fact, there was still a rag-and-bone man on the streets of Holloway when I first moved to London in the 1990s.

G Bailey seem to have navigated this mixed market well: in 1929, for example, their tender for the hire of five large petrol lorries was accepted by the London County Council. If their sign is any indication, the company was not run extravagantly: hints of an earlier sign are now showing through with a large letter M at the start of the top row and what looks like the start of 'depository' beneath. Indeed, the premises were used as a depository in the first part of the century, so it seems an old sign has been frugally reused.

Walking Rotherhithe Tunnel

2013-05-08T22:51:00.000+01:00

While Greenwich and Woolwich have pedestrian foot tunnels, nearby Rotherhithe is generally thought of as a tunnel for motorists. In fact, there is pedestrian access as well, with a pavement provided on each side of the roadway. In the interests of tunnel completeness, I decided to take a walk inside.

The visit begins well: pedestrians have a choice of walking down the gentle slope descending to the tunnel entrance or nipping through a welcoming gate and down some steps. At first, with the open air above and an adequately wide footpath, all seems good.

However, the interior of the tunnel is definitely not pedestrian-friendly. As the inscription above the entrance reminds us, it was opened in 1908 when most traffic was horse-drawn. Although the air may have been made piquant by horse manure and the occasional petrol engine, it must have been like nectar compared to the thick exhaust fumes filling the space today. Whatever the Edwardian creators of this tunnel may have intended, it's no place for the non-motorist now.

While pollution and congestion are the main criticisms levelled at the tunnel by modern users, the concerns at the time of its construction were rather different. That gentle entrance slope (vital for horse-drawn vehicles), the ventilation shafts and the new roads all take up substantial space, and the 3,000 local residents displaced by its building were vehement opponents of the scheme. Nonetheless, London County Council proceeded with the project.

The wonderfully-named Sir Maurice Fitzmaurice, the council's engineer, designed it; Edward H Tabor directed construction. Fitzmaurice had been engineer (with David Hay) for the Blackwall Tunnel, before going to Egypt to work on the Aswan Dam. After his return to London, he was the council's chief engineer and among his other major projects was the Woolwich foot tunnel.

Part of the construction was by the cut-and-cover method but most required the use of tunnelling shields. Their cutting edges remain on-site, forming the entrance arches to the tunnel which is lined with cast-iron segments, covered in tiles. It is just under 1.5 kilometres long, and its maximum depth is 23 metres below the surface.

Given that length, ventilation is essential. There are four ventilation shafts: two marked by cupolas familiar to travellers along the Thames, and two rather more plain models set back from the river. The cupolas have staircases which once allowed pedestrian access to the tunnel, but they were closed due to damage in the Second World War and have never reopened.

From the Rotherhithe end, the tunnel soon angles to the right and so it emerges further east across the Thames, in Limehouse. The tunnel's purpose was to serve the docks at its termini; a straight line between them would have had two problems - the docks themselves were in the way; and it was feared that if there was daylight visible ahead, horses might bolt.

In 1908, the tunnel was opened by the Prince of Wales (the future George V). Welcoming 2,600 vehicles a day, it was considered a great success. Today, about 34,000 pass through each day, along with an estimated 20 (fool)hardy pedestrians. As for me, having washed the exhaust fumes away, I'm in no hurry to descend into the tunnel again.

Further reading: Dr Amanda Squires' article for Rotherhithe & Bermondsey Local History Society. Fin Fahey's photographic comparison of the entrance 1909/2006. Wonderful photos of the tunnel's construction in the Science & Society Picture Library.

I have also walked in the more pleasant Woolwich foot tunnel and - just before London Overground moved in - the historic Thames Tunnel.

London Sewing Machine Museum

2013-05-05T21:20:00.000+01:00

London is best known for its large, national museums - and they are very fine. However, one of its hidden joys is the scattering of small, unusual museums in the city. Few are more specialist than the London Sewing Machine Museum, whose scope is apparent from its name. It is conveniently close to Tooting Bec tube station, and less conveniently open just once a month.

Walk up the steps, past the small displays on the landing, and on entering the museum itself you can't help but be struck by the sheer numbers of machines. Yet this is only half the available space: there are plenty more sewing machines in adjacent rooms. Some are displayed in a recreated shopfront and workshop; others are interspersed with charming pieces of Victoriana. There are over 600 in total.

Incredibly, this is all the collection of one man, Ray Rushton. His father began selling second-hand sewing machines shortly after the Second World War, and Ray helped out transporting and renovating the machines. Thus a passion was born: the collection now includes one of the very first sewing machines as well as others with royal connections (including the machine which belonged to Queen Victoria's eldest daughter). There are also a number of intriguing variations which perform specialist roles such as stitching leather, carpet or gloves.

Cloth cutting machine, 1906

Some of the sewing machines have had movie careers: they are hired out to film makers who want machines of particular types or periods. Famous or not, though, they deserve a visit: sewing enthusiasts will be enthralled, while those of us rather less familiar with the machines will enjoy the chance to wonder at their sheer variety. This is also an important part of our social history: from workers in the textile industries to the housewife buying her Singer on hire purchase - not to mention the occasional princess - few sections of society have been untouched by the sewing machine.

Practical information: Open first Saturday of the month, 2-5pm.

London Sewing Machine Museum, Wimbledon Sewing Machine Co, 292-312 Balham High Road, SW17 7AA.

Admission free (donations to one of the charity boxes are appreciated).

Access via a flight of stairs.

More photos here.

Conservation complete!

2013-05-03T11:56:00.003+01:00

The west wall of the Painted Hall, that elaborate dining room at the heart of Greenwich's Old Royal Naval College, is now unveiled. After a conservation programme which saw it shrouded in scaffolding - and allowed the public behind the scenes - the newly rich, vivid colours of this baroque artwork are once more revealed.While the main hall remains as impressive as ever, the additional glow of the restored area at its end is striking.

It was fun to spot areas previously seen up-close from the scaffold - and to see once more how they fitted into the wider scheme.

The decoration is rich with references designed to flatter the royal family and remind others of their and the nation's achievements. Some of these are subtler than others: you don't need to be able to decode the work's symbolism to understand the point of a scroll listing naval victories!

However, while the main theme is the glory of Britain and its rulers, there are also tributes by the artist James Thornhill to himself. He appears in the foreground, presenting his work.

Above him is St Paul's Cathedral. While his patrons may have appreciated its royal connections and impressive appearance, it also - by a happy coincidence - featured one of his other major works. Thornhill had painted the scenes from the life of St Paul inside its famous dome.

After yesterday's official unveiling, the Painted Hall is now showing off its west wall to the public once again.

Changing the Guard

2013-05-01T16:12:00.000+01:00

There are some tourist attractions in London I'm quite happy to miss. Others I love: crossing Tower Bridge most days still delights me! Then, like most people, I have a long (and growing) to-do list. Somewhere on that list was the changing of the guard. After nearly twenty years in London I felt I ought to see it, but standing outside Buckingham Palace for ages in thick crowds for a glimpse of passing bearskin hats didn't have much appeal.

The crowds we avoided!

Thankfully, a conversation on Twitter not only led to me crossing the event off my list at last, but also allowed me to do so with rather more enjoyment (and better photographs) than I would have managed alone. Fun London Tours offer regular guided walks which take you to the best spots, give you the background history and significance of the ceremony, avoid all the waiting around, and generally make the whole event much more entertaining.

This ceremony has been taking place since the restoration of the monarchy in 1660 - not as old as the Tower of London's Ceremony of the Keys but still pretty venerable. It has also seen more changes than the Tower ceremony - not least because Buckingham Palace only became the monarch's official residence in 1837.

The Welsh Guards were relieving fellow Welsh Guards, although more often the change is between different regiments. As well as the elaborately-painted drums, there are more subtle clues to the regiment: the green-and-white plumes on their bearskins, badges on their collars, and even the grouping of their buttons indicate which regiment they belong to. (The others are the Grenadier Guards, Coldstream Guards, Scots Guards and Irish Guards.) Two bands provided a soundtrack to the event.

The bearskins are literally made of bearskin (from the Canadian black bear - or brown bear, dyed black, for officers). Some have been handed down for a century, although most are much newer. The first British Army bearskins were worn in the eighteenth century; in future, they may be replaced by a synthetic alternative if a suitable substitute can be found.

Practical information: tours run frequently, starting 10.10am at Lillywhites, Piccadilly. Book here.

Ghost signs (88): Bovril

2013-04-29T09:30:00.000+01:00

There's no ambiguity about what this sign in Romford Road, E12 is advertising! It's less visually appealing than the Bovril advertisement in Chester, but was perhaps all the more effective for its boldness and simplicity.

Wells Conduit

2013-04-25T16:31:00.000+01:00

Wells in Somerset takes its name, perhaps unimaginatively, from the wells which provided it with fresh water. Two could be found in the grounds of the Cathedral and Bishop's Palace; the nearby market place provides a slightly more prosaic location for this conduit, which brought well water to the townspeople.

Fresh drinking water has been available here since the middle ages. The current fountain is a relative youngster, built in the late eighteenth century. Its predecessor had been constructed in 1451, paid for by Bishop Beckington; unsurprisingly, it became somewhat dilapidated over the centuries and had to be pulled down in 1756.

Its replacement didn't please everyone: John Britton's 1838 Dictionary of the Architecture and Archaeology of the Middle Ages damned the current conduit as 'a very paltry piece of masonry', while the Encyclopaedia Londinensis of 1829 described it as 'a tasteless structure in the form of a triangle.' In more measured tones, it went on to explain that the conduit's water 'is conveyed by leaden pipes, from an aqueduct, also the gift of bishop Beckington, situated near the source of St Andrew's Spring, between the cathedral and the bishop's palace.'

On Wednesdays and Saturdays, the fountain is surrounded by a market of equally venerable pedigree. Behind them, past the Penniless Porch, the cathedral overlooks the tiny city centre. Its beauties are - deservedly - more universally admired.

Click the image to view more photographs.

Sewer power

2013-04-23T15:01:00.000+01:00

Back when our streets were lit by gas lamps, we hadn't yet discovered the benefits of natural gas. As a result, most used 'town gas' manufactured from coal. Given the trouble and expense involved, wouldn't it be better to find a more convenient, cheap source of gas power? Say, the very gas which was being vented unused into the air from sewer stink pipes?

One Joseph Edmund Webb certainly thought so, and he tapped into this copious source of gas. However, the light was almost a side-effect: most importantly, the burning of gases helped avoid dangerous accumulations which might otherwise poison sewer workers or cause explosions. (Stinkpipes served a similar purpose, but couldn't always be tall enough to rise above buildings and only dispersed, rather than eliminated, the smells.) His creation, the Webb Patent Sewer Gas Destructor Lamp, had a great deal of success and the most famous example is in Carting Lane, London. It still operates today - although it had to be restored after being hit by a lorry.

However, Webb's product lined streets far beyond the capital. The first lamp was in his home town of Birmingham, erected in 1894; Sutton Coldfield quickly adopted the product; and soon the lamps could be found all over the country. Sheffield had a large number of them (some of which are still in place) while Whitley Bay and Monkseaton have ten of their original seventeen. I came across another example in Durham. It no longer operates, having apparently been extinguished during the wartime blackout, but still stands as if ready for use. Indeed, such was the success of Webb's lamps that the Birmingham inventor was able to open offices at Poultry, City of London.

The lamps did also require a more conventional gas supply, which burned in a cluster of three mantels to create intense heat. The resulting updraught helped draw out the methane which would then combust to produce a brighter light. Because the lamps were always burning, there was no need for a lamplighter to do his regular rounds - but they still have the usual ladder bars, to facilitate cleaning and maintenance.

Further reading: Nik Morton's excellent article on Webb's lamps.

Permanent waving, electric massage

2013-04-21T21:25:00.001+01:00

Above an estate agent's in Wells, Somerset, stained-glass windows advertise a former business. It offered quite a variety of services for appearance-conscious women, including 'modes' and 'robes' for the fashionably-dressed. And for those concerned about their coiffeurs, 'permanent waving' and 'electric massage' were on offer.

Permanent waving has been with us so long that many people have probably forgotten it's the correct name for the familiar 'perm'. The process, first invented in the late nineteenth century, developed steadily through the 1920s and was commonplace in the 1930s. Only after the Second World War would home perms become an alternative to visiting the salon.

'Electric massage' may seem a more surprising hairdressing treatment. Today, it sounds odd and uncomfortable but in the first part of the twentieth century, electricity was seen as a source of health. An advertisement from 1931 offers electric massage using the Vytalife Electric Comb: it would cure headaches, dandruff, and baldness as well as giving the user wavy hair! One suspects that the women of Wells did not experience similar miracles.

Ghost signs (87): Lil's Cafe, Leeds

2013-04-16T19:07:00.003+01:00

This sign is so perfectly in tune with current vintage fashions that it's hard to guess its age. However, Lil's Cafe seems to have been gone for some years from this building next to the Corn Exchange. Before closing, it had been around long enough for the sign to be repainted at least once: under the black scrolls and white lettering of 'Lil's' and 'open daily' can be seen an earlier version with red flourishes surrounding a dark script.

None of this brings us close to the actual age of the sign - if anyone knows, I'd love to hear from you!

At the Huguenot Festival

2013-04-14T13:09:00.000+01:00

When the Huguenots - French protestants - fled persecution and moved to London, many of them brought skills as silkweavers. They settled in Spitalfields, away from the City and its guilds, and left lasting marks including the area's distinctive silkweavers' houses. Although mainly Calvinist, they even had some responsibility for Christ Church - built not by them but to remind them of the primacy of the Established Church. All of this history is being celebrated by the Huguenot Festival, now underway and running until 21 April.

Yesterday, the Big Weave event at Spitalfields Market celebrated the Huguenots' association with the weaving industry. It included demonstrations of all sorts of weaving, and a textile version of the famous Roque Map of London - the detail below is of the Spitalfields area.

Forthcoming events include daily walking tours, talks, visits, and an exhibition at the Bank of England Museum. (Its first director was a Huguenot.) Full details, along with lots of suggestions for places to visit, are on the Huguenot Festival website.

Ghost signs (86): Pammastic!

2013-04-12T23:27:00.000+01:00

Travelling on the 123 bus through New Eltham, I saw a ghost sign which had been painted over. That the cream covering hadn't proved stronger or more durable is perhaps ironic, as it was attempting to obscure an advertisement for a brand of paint.

The words were barely legible, although it was apparent that there were two colours of text and a logo. However, some messing around on Photoshop reveals the wording:

STOCKISTS OF

PAMMEL

PAMMASTIC

PLASTIC EMULSION

COATING

BLUNDELL

'Blundell' was actually Blundell, Spence & Co, founded as a partnership in 1811. They manufactured paint in Hull - a centre of the paint industry then, as white lead was produced there - and by the twentieth century were exporting their products around the world. Subsidiaries were established in India, Chile, South Africa and Australia. The company would merge with Permoglaze in 1960, although the Blundell Spence name remained in use for another five years.

Pammastic was a well-known brand name of the 1950s. It was a polyvinyl acetate ('plastic') emulsion which didn't need undercoat and dried quickly. Its sister product Pammel offered a gloss 'enamel' finish in a range of colours.

Hare Court and Arthur Cohen

2013-04-09T16:49:00.000+01:00

Temple, the area south of Strand largely occupied by barristers' chambers, has been home to two Inns of Court - Inner and Middle Temple - since the middle ages. Much of the building now there is considerably less ancient than that might suggest, as large parts of it had to be reconstructed after the Blitz; this was mostly done in eighteenth-century style, so the difference between old and new buildings is not obvious. Among the major buildings to be destroyed and rebuilt were Inner Temple Hall and Library, and part of Temple Church. The Elizabethan Middle Temple Hall also suffered damage.

However, there had also been major rebuilding in the nineteenth century. By the 1830s, much of Temple was rather ramshackle, so new buildings brought modern comforts to the barristers who then often resided as well as worked there. A rather exuberant acknowledgement of one of these projects can be spotted on Middle Temple Lane. This fine sculpted plaque commemorates the rebuilding of the west side of Hare Court in 1893-4, work begun by Inner Temple Treasurer Alfred Marten and finished by his successor Arthur Cohen.

Cohen's route to the Bar had not been as straightforward as it should have been: the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography describes a difficult path through university. A gifted student from a prominent family (his mother was a Montefiore with connections to the Mocatta family), Cohen wished to study at Cambridge but was rejected by several colleges because he was Jewish. In 1849, Magdalene College accepted him as a mathematics student - but only after he had passed an entrance exam on William Paley's View of the Evidences of Christianity. Once at the University, he succeeded academically as well as rowing for his college, and was President of the Union Society, but he could not be awarded his degree as a Christian oath was compulsory. That only changed thanks to the Cambridge Reform Act 1856, after which he became the first professing Jew to graduate from the University. A very successful legal career followed, and he was known for his kindness as well as his legal expertise. He was also the Liberal MP for Southwark in the 1880s, supporting Home Rule and opposing the hereditary House of Lords.

Ghost mosaic

2013-04-07T18:58:00.000+01:00

Dinard, on Brittany's Emerald Coast, has long attracted summer visitors: the British have been holidaying here for a century and a half. The first hotel was built in 1859; others, and fine villas, would follow in subsequent decades. The often aristocratic visitors could enjoy not only the sea but also tennis, golf and above all, a fine social life: this was for a while France's premier seaside resort.

However, as the area's climate is not dissimilar to that of southern Britain, the beach alone was not enough to entertain visitors. Thus the town boasted attractions including a casino and elegant shops.While the casino had been established as long ago as 1866, it was rebuilt at the beginning of the twentieth century, along with various new and stylish stores.

While the town continues to be a popular and attractive resort, most of the original occupants of these stores built at the turn of the twentieth century have gone. However, their presence is still apparent in various forms. Opposite the casino is a reminder of a luxury jewellery store: A Van Cleef, who advertised with this fine pavement mosaic below the steps to their door.

Although the full name is not given, this was in fact the first Van Cleef & Arpels branch outside their famous store in the Place Vendome, Paris. It opened in 1909; the 'A' was for Alfred Van Cleef, who masterminded this expansion. He would soon open further branches in Nice, Vichy and Deauville.

Dinard fell out of fashion among the very wealthy thanks to the growing appeal of the sunnier Cote d'Azur, but continues to be a thriving resort. Many of its villas are listed, and they contribute to the town's unique atmosphere. Also fascinating, though, are these smaller traces of its past.

Leeds curiosities

2013-04-02T16:42:00.000+01:00

Leeds grew enormously in the nineteenth century, so it's no surprise that much of its architecture - civic, commercial and industrial - should be Victorian and Edwardian. The city is full of wonderful examples in a range of styles and materials.

Part of the particular appeal of this period is the abundance of quirky features often found in its buildings. While the popular image of the Victorians and Edwardians is rather stiff-upper-lip, etiquette-bound and respectable, their buildings can show a rather different personality. My first choice is an example both of the pride so many took in their achievements, and of the way that first impressions can mislead.

The Pearl Assurance building, opposite Leeds Town Hall, is topped with a statue of its founder. There was certainly no false modesty in putting his effigy directly opposite that grand monument to civic pride! Telephoto lenses, however, reveal that the company was as canny as it was cocky: just look at the facial features.

Thornton & Co sneak into the very end of the period, since their building wasn't completed until 1918. (I admit it, I'm cheating a little here!) Their business as 'India Rubber Manufacturers' is redolent of the period (products included garments, rubber mats, air beds, industrial belts, and bottle seals), but the premises are notable for more than this inscription. They were built from state-of-the-art materials, including a steel frame and reinforced concrete, but what is really special is the cladding material. 'Burmantofts Marmo' was manufactured locally by the Leeds Fireclay Company, and was a matt-glazed faience designed to imitate marble. Produced from 1908, and designed to compete with Doulton Carraraware, it remained in production until the company closed in 1957.

Finally, and back on Victorian ground, we have the extraordinary Time Ball Buildings. They were given their amazing facade by John Dyson, a watchmaker and clockmaker, in 1872.

As the name suggests, it includes time balls which imitated their Greenwich counterpart by dropping at precisely 1pm each day. The time was communicated by telegraph from Greenwich to the railway station, and the information shared with clockmakers including Dyson.

One tedious aspect of having a shop which sells small, valuable items is that they are very attractive to thieves. Thus watches have to be taken out of the window at night and placed securely inside the shop; then the whole process has to be reversed each morning. However, if you are an imaginative person with a clockmaker's skills, you might come up with an alternative system - and that's just what Dyson did. He installed a mechanism which allowed the entire window display to be lowered to safely each night and then lifted back into place during opening hours.

Ghost signs (85): Subscription News Room

2013-03-31T11:52:00.002+01:00

At the top of Saddler Street, Durham, near the castle, is an early nineteenth-century building. Above its door is a painted sign: Subscription News Room. When newspapers and journals were expensive, joining such an organisation allowed a wide range of reading in return for an annual subscription - and usually a comfortable and pleasant environment in which to read.

Tea, fish and finance

2013-03-26T16:46:00.000Z

The sinuous ceramic fish I shared a few days ago is just one of the decorative features in the lobby of Lloyd's Bank, Law Court Branch. One of the treasures of Fleet Street and Strand, it offers perhaps the most extraordinary surroundings for a cashpoint in the city.

In fact, the bank's history is closely connected with that of the tea shop nearby at 216 Strand. Twining's is the oldest shop in London still housing its original business, although the company's teas are now a national brand. In 1825, over a century after opening the shop, the Twining family moved into banking with an office at Devereux Court. It was just one room, holding a safe, desk and a clerk, and handled business mainly for the family. Expansion was rapid, and very soon the bank was building new premises at 215 Strand, complete with connecting door to the shop.

In 1892, the bank merged with Lloyd's and three years later it moved to the current branch at 222 Strand. A year earlier, Praed's bank had also merged with Lloyd's and its 169 Fleet Street office was also transferred here. In fact, the building was not purpose-built but had opened as a hotel restaurant in 1883 before it was converted from food to finance. It was the work of architect G Cuthbert, decorated with Doulton tiles painted by J H McLennan. The 'P' incorporated into the design is for Palsgrove Hotel.

The Twining family connection to the bank did not end with the merger. Herbert Haynes Twining was its manager until 1917, when he retired. His son had started work in the bank in 1909, but died near Ypres in the First World War - and the family connection with this branch died with him.

Piscatorial poser

2013-03-23T16:56:00.000Z

Where in London would you find this fine fish?

(Feel free to guess in the comments; answer in a few days!)

Margate ghosts

2013-03-19T16:27:00.000Z

Right outside the railway station is a good, if faded, sign for Dominion Motor Spirits. Like many signs, it partly owes its survival to the newer advertising which replaced it: a few years ago, one side was protected by a hoarding.

Dominion was founded in London in the 1920s, supplying petrol products for aeroplanes and racing cars as well as the domestic motorist. A series of company take-overs soon followed, and it became part of Shell-Mex and BP in 1934. However, the brand survived until 1957 and was marketed as a premium product. While Dominion Motor Spirits may have long disappeared, the garage mentioned in the advertisement - Albert Garage - is still very much in business at this location.

Walking along Marine Parade and into the town centre, I saw several hotel signs. The Beresford Boarding House may have left a less colourful, more mundane reminder of its past than Dominion, but it still tells part of the resort's story.

It peers above the fence for Dreamland's car park. This amusement park was once at the metaphorical as well as literal heart of the town, but closed some years ago. Happily, it was saved from developers and is to be reopened next year, featuring historical rides and attractions. With its Grade II-listed cinema, rollercoaster and menagerie cages, it is ideally suited to conveying the heritage of British seaside amusements. For the moment, however, its prominent signs make a forlorn reminder of the past.

Just off the Market Place in the Old Town is another hotel sign, for the Central Temperance Commercial Hotel. It's a reminder of the temperance movement and its alternatives to licensed premises - many of which enjoyed success. Indeed, this hotel points out that it was 'Estab[lished] 20 years'.

Nearby, the Thanet Times and Isle of Thanet Gazette promise that they are 'best' for classified adverts, Thanet sport and all the weekend news. In fact, the Thanet Times published its final edition last year although the Isle of Thanet Gazette continues to cover local news.

You might also look for a more literary kind of ghost. In the Nayland Rock Shelter, T S Eliot looked out over the seafront as he wrote part of The Waste Land.

On Margate Sands.

I can connect

Nothing with nothing.

Kew Gardens, culture and empire

2013-03-17T13:01:00.000Z

In 1910, a Japanese-British Exhibition was held in White City. Among its attractions was a large and elaborate gateway, a four-fifths size replica of the Gate of Nishi Hongan-Ji in Kyoto. The following year, after the exhibition closed, the gateway was moved to Kew Gardens where it still stands. During restoration in 1995, the lead-covered bark shingles on its roof were replaced with more traditional copper tiles. This building, its location and its history do not only commemorate British interest in Japanese culture but also raise more complex questions about the meanings of such cultural exchange.

Exhibition-goers' interest in Japan was perhaps rather different in nature to the curiosity of visitors to 'human zoo' exhibitions of the same period. (The Japanese empire, however, was represented by the exhibiting of Ainu and Formosan people.) Not only had Japan never been a European colony, but until the mid-nineteenth century it had been closed to the West. When borders were opened in 1854, a fascination with all things Japanese followed. Kew was among many collectors of the newly-available Japanese plants, but a fashion for Japanese gardens came somewhat later. Leopold de Rothschild created a much-admired garden in the 1880s, in nearby Gunnersbury Park. The 1910 exhibition stimulated this British interest: two gardens were created by Japanese designers and workmen, using trees, plants, wooden features and stones sent from Japan. However, the authenticity of most British 'Japanese' gardens was usually only partial, which we can view either as a process of cultural fusion or as a more problematic act of appropriation. It was probably both, in varying degrees.

For an apparently clearer example of cultural appropriation, we need not move from the site of Kew's Japanese Gateway, a rise of ground known as Mossy Hill. This name refers not to the vegetation found here but to the mosque which previously occupied it. In the eighteenth century, Sir William Chambers (architect to the Gardens' then-owner Augusta, Dowager Princess of Wales) would build not only the famous pagoda but also, in 1762, a 'Turkish mosque'. It was in fact neither Turkish nor a functioning mosque; imitations followed in the Schloss Garten at Schwetzingen and in Armainvilliers near Paris in the following decades, but none were genuine places of worship. Instead, they were exotic novelties much like Brighton's Royal Pavilion or the aforementioned, and famously inauthentic, Kew Pagoda. Britain's first mosque would not be built until 1889, in Woking, Surrey.

Again, though, the picture needs to be complicated a little. Turkey was the heart of the Ottoman Empire, one of the great imperial powers of Europe when the 'mosque' was built. Nebahat Avcıoğlu argues that through Kew's Chinese and Turkish buildings, the royal family was in fact attempting to legitimise its own imperial ambitions by association. In addition, the mosque functioned as an Enlightenment metaphor for religious tolerance. Finally, the design of the mosque - including the incorporation of Qu'ranic inscriptions - was not purely fanciful but indicated an acquaintance with both Ottoman architecture and Islam.

Should we be pleased that Georgian England had such interest in Turkish and Islamic culture and architecture, or horrified that sacred forms were casually appropriated for secular places of amusement? Is an openness to other cultures inevitably limited by only partial understanding of them? Is imitation really the sincerest form of flattery? Kew Gardens show us tensions which are perhaps inevitable in any cultural exchange: maybe the issue is whether we are aware of them, and the extent to which genuine interest and curiosity outweigh objectification and exploitation. These questions are not purely historical, although the contexts have sometimes changed dramatically: in modern China, it is the English town which is being recreated as exotic curiosity.

Thomas Myddelton, Lord Mayor of London

2013-03-14T17:18:00.000Z

Today, Sir Thomas Myddelton (c1550-1631) is pretty much forgotten in favour of his younger brother Hugh of New River fame. However, Thomas was pretty important and successful in his own right: knighted by James I, he became Lord Mayor of London in 1613 and an MP for the city in 1624.

Thomas was originally apprenticed as a grocer but became a wealthy merchant as well as an influential alderman. He traded in sugar and built a refinery in Mincing Lane, was one of the founders of the East India Company and had invested in Drake's and Raleigh's privateering expeditions (many of these activities we would consider ethically dubious today, but were a good way to gain money and influence then). Much of his investment would have been funded by his position as surveyor of the customs and excise: it was accepted that monies collected in this post could be used for private speculation until they were due to be handed to the exchequer.

Myddelton divided his time between London and Wales. He purchased Chirk Castle in Denbighshire for £4,800 in 1595 and converted it from a mediaeval fortress to a comfortable Tudor home. Later, he gave it to his son as a wedding present. Other contacts with his home country included the provisions of loans to hundreds of fellow Welsh people. He also funded the publication of religious books in Welsh, including the first portable bible.

Image: Chirk Castle by Prichardson on wikipedia.

Boy and Serpent, Weston-super-Mare

2013-03-12T12:51:00.000Z

I'm very fond of cast-iron fountains, and Weston-super-Mare has a lovely example on the sea front. It has been in place since 1913, and was recently restored so it's celebrating its centenary in style.

A plaque on the base states that the fountain was presented to the town by Thomas Macfarlane, chairman of the town's Urban District Council. His great-grandaughter switched the fountain back on after its restoration.

The fountain itself bears a clear foundry mark: Coalbrookdale. Located in the Ironbridge gorge, and at the heart of the Industrial Revolution, the Coalbrookdale company was founded by Abraham Darby. It had begun making cast-iron rails in the eighteenth century and achieved fame for the gorge's famous Iron Bridge, the world's first cast-iron bridge. The boiler and engine for Trevithick's steam locomotive were made here. In the nineteenth century, it made everything from stoves to furniture to shop fronts. Not least, the company produced much decorative ironwork, ranging from gates for Hyde Park to this lovely fountain.

Conservation up close

2013-03-10T15:38:00.000Z

The Painted Hall of the Old Royal Naval College, Greenwich is one of Britain's baroque masterpieces. It has also spent the last three centuries as a tourist attraction, so the elaborate decoration has not had an easy time!

Back in the site's days as the Royal Hospital, it needed a dining hall. Architect Sir Christopher Wren and artist James Thornhill worked together here as they already had on St Paul's Cathedral (where Thornhill painted scenes from the life of St Paul inside its dome). It took nineteen years - which must have made his employers glad they were paying Thornhill by the square yard rather than the hour. In 1727 the work was finally completed.

The lavishly-painted room with its pillars and carved wood was, however, considered a rather elaborate space for naval veterans to eat their dinner. Instead of dining in it, the Pensioners got to act as tour guides for paying visitors.

And the visitors have been coming ever since. In 1806, they could pay their respects to Nelson who lay in state here, three months after dying at the Battle of Trafalgar. During most of the nineteenth century, they got to look at naval paintings - later part of the original National Maritime Museum collection. Today, the decoration is the main attraction.

Step into the hall, and at first sight its walls and ceilings are covered in painting. On closer inspection, the huge design on the west wall, depicting George I and his family surrounded by flattering symbolism, is actually a reproduction hanging in front of the original. As part of a major conservation programme, the painting is being cleaned. Look up and you catch a glimpse of the scaffolding.

If you're lucky, and have booked a place on one of the regular free tours, you'll be taken behind the scenes, given a hard hat and high-visibility vest, and allowed to ascend the scaffolding to see the conservators at work. I went along and not only learned about the careful inspection and cleaning taking place, but also got a much closer look at the images than is usually possible.

A book is revealed to be Newton's Principia, with diagrams sketched on its pages.

An outstretched hand is almost imperceptibly shadowed by a ghostly version of itself - the original limb, later overpainted.

Not every brushstroke is Thornhill's: he worked with a team of artists, some specialising in particular subjects such as flowers.

The architectural background was painted first, then the figures. Sometimes, that is obvious at close range: here, background details show through an ethereally pale hand.

They painted directly onto the plaster, itself covering wooden laths. Some of these are visible at the edges, once the scaffolding puts you at eye-level with them.

Carefully cleaning this huge and delicate work is a demanding task. However, it is also much quicker than we perhaps imagine; modern materials and techniques help. Some of the work has also proved to be in better condition than expected.

The Old Royal Naval College deserve credit not only for ensuring that the conservation work does little to detract from visits to the hall, but also for allowing the public to take such a close look behind the scenes. There will be further stages to the project in future, if sufficient funding can be found. All donations are gratefully received - but entrance to the hall, and even the tours, remain free.

Further reading: Details of the tours are here and there's more about the appeal here. The Londonphile visited in January, so her photos show a slightly earlier stage of the work. More of my images are on flickr.